


Twilight

by gwyneth rhys (gwyneth)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Guilt, M/M, Mid-life Crisis, Motorcycles, Near Death Experience, Road Trips, fear of aging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-06-25
Updated: 1999-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-27 09:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyneth/pseuds/gwyneth%20rhys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skinner's past and future collide, bringing him face to face not just with guilt and grief, but with a world where second chances are possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twilight

That time of year thou mayst in me behold  
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang  
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,  
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.  
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day  
As after sunset fadeth in the west,  
Which by and by black night doth take away,  
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

\-- From Sonnet 73, William Shakespeare

 

Skinner woke to the soft, wispy sound of gentle snoring. It wasn't a slow waking; it was abrupt and shocking, as though cold water had been thrown on him. He threw his arm over his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, before he quietly climbed out of bed.

He stood there looking at the rumpled bedclothes, the pile of jeans and sweaters and t-shirts on the floor. It had been such a long time since he'd awakened with someone next to him. An even longer time since that someone had been a man.

And, ironically enough, the last time it had been a man, it had been this same man.

Skinner walked to the bathroom, rubbing his hands over his face. He still felt very tired, and could easily have done with a few more hours of sleep. Nothing like a little death to make you feel really old. He looked at himself in the mirror the way he always did now, always checking to see if his veins were shading to dark blue, always wondering if mottled bruises would appear without warning. If he hadn't been paranoid before, he was plenty paranoid now.

Sleeping with Mulder could only make it worse. He walked back out of the bathroom, casting a quick glance at the only part of Mulder he could see -- dark hair peeking out from under the top of the sheets, four fingers of the right hand curled over the edge of the pillow -- and went downstairs to the kitchen.

These days there was no telling who was watching them, how much they knew, or what they'd do with the information if they had it. Skinner had no idea which corner Krycek was lurking behind, which turn of action would inspire him to open that gizmo and toy with his life as if it were a computer game. Before, the threats that Skinner, Mulder and Scully faced had all come from the smoker; now they came from other dark places, different enemies.

The sound of the coffee grinder seemed loud enough to wake the dead. He poured the water in the pot and set it to go. The rituals and habit of everyday life had taken on a new significance to him now. He'd made coffee nearly every day of his adult life, but now he listened to the sound of the beans grinding, inhaled the earthy, dark aroma. No matter how significant or mundane, each individual action had its own value, one previously undiscovered.

Briefly, Skinner stopped, considering whether he should go back upstairs and see if Mulder was awake. But he decided against it, since he wasn't quite ready yet to talk about last night. And Mulder would want to talk about it. Mulder lying in bed last night looked very little different from Mulder lying in bed nearly ten years ago.

Oh, maybe the hairline was a few millimeters higher, but Skinner supposed Mulder was one of those men who would last well into old age with a fair bit of hair. Ten years ago he'd looked a bit more boyish perhaps, but there'd been times since then, especially a few years ago when Mulder had worn his hair combed over to the side, when he'd looked even younger. Like a twelve-year-old. Those were times at work when Skinner would realize how separate they were, how far apart their worlds had grown since that short weekend in Chicago.

Even over the course of the years, during everything they'd been through \-- together and alone -- Skinner had never forgotten any of that weekend. Each image, each sensation was indelibly marked in his mind. To his chagrin, he'd found that Mulder was not forgettable.

Not that being with him had been simple. On the contrary. As fleeting as those moments were, each had been weighted with complications. From the instant he'd met Mulder, all slouchy insolence and brilliant wit, quiet confidence and tremulous doubt, he'd been unable to look away; and Skinner wondered sometimes, as the years passed, if he'd been unable to look away because he was looking into his doom.

And if in the heat of those first moments Skinner had forgotten himself, had found himself first staring at Mulder over drinks and then suddenly, without noticing the lost time in between, found himself in Mulder's hotel room, he had only himself to blame. Everything had moved in the blink of an eye then and he was not in control -- one instant he had lube in his hand, the next that hand was nearly all the way inside Mulder; in one heartbeat he could hear Mulder begging him for more, in the next he heard himself pleading for the same. They were on the bed, they were on the floor, they were on the table or in the chair. They lay in bed discussing procedure, or argued over cases while eating. To Skinner, that weekend had embodied the word adventure. Their raw sexual hunger was counterpointed perfectly by tender, intense conversation, all the more rare because Skinner hardly ever talked like that, and Mulder claimed few people wished to listen to him.

And then the end, as the heat and madness had evaporated, telling Mulder that it had all been fun, but he was married, and they had their jobs to think about, and this was the FBI after all. If the passion of that weekend had muddled his sense of time, that particularly unfortunate moment was petrified in his heart. Mulder standing there precariously balanced on one leg, the other halfway in his trousers, shirt unbuttoned, tie draped over this shoulders. Mouthing the word "married" as though it were in a language he was unfamiliar with. Of all the things he'd done and said that weekend, that callous ambush was the thing he regretted most.

No, Skinner shook his head, none of that mattered, we got on with our lives, moved forward. Neither of us is the type to waste emotion on things we can't change. He rarely let it enter his mind, in fact, after the initial jolt of seeing Mulder again at the Hoover building, realizing that they would be working together.

Coffee done, musings done, he poured two cups and was just about to pick them up when he felt Mulder's presence behind him. Skinner didn't turn, instead stiffened his spine as though that would ward Mulder off. Clearly unimpressed by his remoteness, Mulder pressed his body against Skinner's, snaking his hand along Skinner's stomach and then sneaking down into the jeans.

"The best part of waking up..." Mulder said facetiously, against Skinner's ear.

He let Mulder move his hand down, didn't stop him when Mulder's tongue slid around the edge of his ear. But it irritated him. He was being confronted with a mistake, realizing he'd let barriers down that should have stayed up.

Finally Skinner pushed away from him, turned, and handed Mulder one of the cups. Mulder, obviously feeling quite comfortable in Skinner's kitchen, opened the refrigerator, pulled out milk, then dumped in enough to turn the coffee utterly beige, followed closely by what looked like about one quarter cup of sugar.

"Some coffee with your sugar?" Skinner asked.

Mulder sipped it, grinning at him over the lip of the cup. He hopped up on the counter and stared intently at Walter.

Skinner only leaned against the refrigerator, looking back at Mulder, feeling the vibrating hum along his back.

Finally Mulder broke the silence. "Any bagels?"

"You think this is a short order place or something?"

"I got what I ordered last night," Mulder said.

"Service is our goal."

"And then some." He laughed out loud, a sound Skinner hadn't heard in... well, years. "It's been a long time."

"It has." Skinner wasn't willing to acknowledge the change in their status; to do so would be to let Mulder in, to give him an edge over Skinner's own furious aloneness.

"Did you think we weren't going to talk about it?"

Skinner grimaced. "Iiii... was kind of hoping we wouldn't have to, yup."

Mulder seemed to consider this for a while, staring out the window, before turning his attention back to Skinner. "I can't let you off the hook on this one, Walter. You stung me last time, and I'm not letting you get away with it again. I've been waiting quite a while."

"I have things to do today, Fox." Skinner put his cup in the sink and walked out of the kitchen. The idea of talking about last night made Skinner's stomach muscles clench. But hadn't he known it would happen, the moment he lost himself in Mulder's shy, frightened smile?

From behind him, he heard Mulder, padding after him. "Now *this* is familiar."

Up the stairs, into the bedroom, and there Mulder was, right behind him. Skinner pulled a t-shirt out of the drawer, underwear, socks, then went to the bathroom.

"Nuh-uh," Mulder said, stepping in front of him. He pushed against Skinner's chest with his flat palm, kept pushing until Skinner sat back on the bed.

Skinner was staggered suddenly by memories of that weekend, of Mulder's relentless insistence that it was more than a cheap fling. Of his own overpowering desire to caress Mulder's lip with his thumb even while Mulder railed against him, his voice high-pitched and grating. Mulder could do that then, holler at him with impunity; there had been no "sir" in their relationship yet, no reporting, no hierarchy beyond age and experience.

Plopping down on the bed next to Skinner, Mulder sighed heavily. "You know, even in the Olympics for guys who don't talk, you take the terse avoidance gold."

"And you get the silver in pushy annoyance."

"I'm a practical man, Walter. People think I'm somewhat capricious, perhaps whimsical. But at heart I'm practical. I realize when I can change things, and when I can't. You I can change." His voice suddenly turned dark. "Everything pivoted last night. Turned upside down. You can't shove me away as you have the past few years."

"I wasn't shoving you away. I was *married*."

Mulder looked down, but Skinner wasn't really sure if he was ashamed, or merely acting that way because it was expected. "I know. I didn't mean it that way."

"Well, what other way could there be to mean it?"

"We both made choices that weekend. It wasn't fate, it wasn't God, it was just us. And you made a choice to ignore the most important thing in your life. You ignored it until you needed it."

"So you're saying I'm hiding behind Sharon's memory now, the way I hid behind my marriage then? In order to, what -- avoid some kind of relationship with you? Even you can't be that naive."

Skinner got up off the bed and went into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He turned on the water and stepped into the shower, feeling the tight band of pain that constricted his forehead grow tighter with his increasing irritation.

There was an atom of truth behind what Mulder had said. After cheating on Sharon, he'd used his marriage as some kind of protective badge to ward off Mulder. And now, even after her death, he couldn't let go of her, failed husband and protector that he was. It was useful at times to let guilt be his armor. That was a shell even Mulder couldn't penetrate.

Not that Mulder hadn't tried. He had to give him credit for that. As hard as Skinner had tried to avoid their past together, Mulder had tried to settle things. He was the type who needed closure, needed answers, and all Skinner had wanted was to move forward into a decent working relationship, far away from a personal one. There were years of terse, dark conversations in narrow, dark halls, their heads bowed and arms crossed against their chests, unable to change the past and utterly unable to cope with their futures, together or alone.

He stepped out of the shower, noticing as he re-entered the bedroom that Mulder was gone. But the drawer of his nightstand was open; he peered inside and noticed immediately that the extra set of keys was gone. You're a piece of work, Mulder, Skinner thought, laughing to himself.

He wasn't sure if Mulder was just downstairs, waiting like a vulture, or had left the place. Waiting like he'd done a few days ago in the parking garage, prowling in the darkness as Skinner had finally had his inevitable confrontation with Krycek.

When Krycek had left his car, Skinner had morosely steered it towards the exit. He hadn't driven more than a few feet before he'd seen Mulder standing there, hands in pockets, covered in shadows. Skinner had stopped the car but left the motor running, then stood up outside the driver's door.

"That's what I thought," was all Mulder had said, his eyes glinting coolly in the dim light.

"Don't," Skinner had said almost weakly in response. Of course Mulder had known it was Krycek in those photos, of course Mulder would have followed him. Skinner had known when he told them it was closed that he wasn't fooling anyone.

"I could kill him," Mulder said dispassionately. "I saw which way he went. Who would notice? But you'll tell me no, won't you? Just like you told me the matter was closed."

"That's why I told you that, Mulder. You can't do this. It's against everything we stand for."

"You'd kill him in a heartbeat if you weren't worried he'd reactivate..." Mulder reached out and touched Skinner's neck "...that."

Skinner sighed and pushed Mulder's hand away. "Maybe. But that doesn't matter right now. I can't let you get involved in this."

Mulder shook his head. "I'm already involved. I've been involved since the day I saw you in Chicago. A lot of wasted time since then, Walter. And that bastard--" he nodded towards the far parking garage door "--just about took away any chance I had of making up for lost time."

"I'm touched," Skinner said dryly. "Let's not forget that we serve a larger purpose here. Simple revenge isn't part of that."

"It's not revenge. He killed you."

All Skinner had been able to do was to get back in the car and drive away. As if it hadn't been bad enough, there was the possibility of Mulder going off half-cocked, exacting retribution on Krycek all in the name of saving Skinner from some unknown fate. It had almost been enough to make Skinner think Mulder was in love, or something.

Maybe it was something like love, Skinner realized now. At times Mulder's misguided belief in Skinner, his need to be a part of Skinner's life, had annoyed or amused him, depending on his mood. Underneath, though, it had been that unwavering support that kept Skinner going even in the darkest of times; even after Sharon's death, even during his own.

Did Mulder know that he had let himself die, willingly? God knew Mulder had seen enough of Skinner's grief these past years. Maybe Mulder saw something in Skinner, had felt compelled to take certain choices out of his hands. Perhaps he'd known only too well which path Skinner would take if it came to life or death.

Skinner was fully aware that Mulder knew just how much time he spent at the cemetery. And Mulder had never said a word about all the pictures of Sharon that seemed to appear everywhere after her death, or the fact that Skinner still had so many of her things. Mulder never chastised him, never pushed him to get on with it. Would he do that now?

When Skinner got downstairs, Mulder was really gone. No trace of him at all, in fact, except maybe the ache in Skinner's lower back from last night's gymnastics, and the second coffee cup in the sink.

Mulder was right. Everything had pivoted last night; they were facing a different direction. He always hated it when Mulder was right.

 

 

The sun was setting as Skinner walked past the Smithsonian Metro station on his way back to the office, an orange glow casting its warm light off the Washington Monument. Winter light was his favorite, the way it created angles and sharpness with such exaggeration. It was warm for this time of year. Or maybe his body was all off -- everything felt different lately. Cold seemed colder, hot hotter.

The crunch of the red path under his feet sounded exceptionally loud, the noise of tourists buzzing by on their way to the sights more grating. He wondered how long this would last. Were things always going to be hyper-real to him? If he could remember clearly as far back as Viet Nam, he might recall such concerns. In spite of the horror he'd been through there, much of his residual fear and anguish had dissipated in a haze of drugs and sex and willful forgetting, and he no longer clearly recalled his reactions to death.

Skinner returned to the office and stood for a moment at the stairwell, considering whether to drop in on Mulder, but thought better of it. They hadn't seen each other since Saturday, and Skinner wasn't sure yet what Mulder expected of him. He didn't doubt for one moment Mulder's intention to turn this into something very serious, but it would be an interesting cat and mouse game to see who did what first.

Need, desire, affection -- all felt foreign to him. Mulder had rekindled these things he thought he'd lost long ago, perhaps before Sharon had brought up the divorce, before she'd died and some of his heart went with her.

He didn't have to be a genius to know what others thought of him, that those around him thought he was staid, repressed, uncaring and unresponsive. At least with Mulder and Scully, he'd gotten past them thinking he was duplicitous and untrustworthy, but he was grimly aware of how few people he had in his life.

Acquaintances did not collect around him; he preferred the company of a tiny group of close friends. Most of his adult life had been centered around Sharon, with a few notable lapses. Yet now there was no one, no one really but Mulder.

His experiences with men were not what he considered a double life. He would not go quite that far, but he would admit to being secretive about that past.

When he woke from dreams peppered with memories of those few times with a man, he would feel Sharon next to him and be reminded of the rightness of his choices. He would reach across the bed, erect and flushed with the excitement of his dreams, straddling Sharon, feeling the texture of her smooth skin, the rightness of her body with his as she wrapped her arms, her legs, around him. He made his doubts disappear that way.

Skinner never questioned his decisions; hadn't really since the first day he'd come back to the World, all cocky twenty-two-year-old swagger, drunk on a survivor's success. He hadn't even been back in the States for more than a few hours before he was high, willing, and following a powerfully attractive man back to his hotel. He spent a few weekends that way, reveling in the dangerousness of it all, before turning his attention to the future. And then nothing again for years, not until well into his marriage, until he met Mulder.

Rationalizing it was easy; only one real betrayal in all those years couldn't mean that much. Except, he also knew, it was a large part of what led him away from Sharon. As soon as Mulder had come to work with Skinner the marriage had slid downhill, and nothing Skinner could do would reverse it. No amount of love for her could combat the overpowering mixture of guilt, desire, fear, and regret.

Finding himself back with Mulder like this, now, was not the reward it could have been. After his own death, still grieving for Sharon, he felt frozen at the core. What should have been sweet was bitter; it was not even a reunion, but a denial of everything that could have been.

Combating his urge to see Mulder didn't work, so he gave in, poking his head in to Mulder's newly reacquired office to see if he was there. But the lights were out, so Skinner went to his car. Time to call it a day, too many boring meetings where he'd drifted off, thinking of Mulder.

These days Skinner always found his heart beating a little faster when he got near his car. It was an association that would fade eventually, but for now the poisoning overpowered his senses. He was constantly on alert, watching over his shoulder.

At first, during his recovery, Skinner had had a hard time eating; food always looked evil to him and smelled worse. He'd dropped more than a few pounds, and had only just begun to feel hungry by evening the way he used to. It was only a few days since he had finally returned to the FBI gym to work out; right now he wasn't quite ready to return to the scene of the crime and head back to the boxing gym.

Mulder had seemed so patronizingly amused about the boxing. But Skinner had to admit that at least, condescending as he was, Mulder had been there for him when it was needed.

So it had not been a surprise when Mulder caught him leaving the building one night and forced him to go out for something to eat. "I feel like a Jewish mother -- eat, eat." Perhaps forced was not the right word; Skinner had been more than willing to go. It was the first real personal contact they had had in years, something far beyond the job and their own heavily proscribed lives.

It had reminded Skinner painfully of just how long it had been since their time together, time that had begun almost the same way -- a tentative dinner, a promise of more to come. Four nights separated by nearly a decade now, four nights that had left sea changes. Had Mulder felt that way, too? Skinner often wondered. Mulder always appeared to want more from Skinner, but he wasn't always sure if it was merely wishful thinking on the part of a middle-aged man.

He drove to Five Guys for some burgers to take home, remembering with absolute clarity the moment he'd first met Mulder. He'd come into the office and seen Mulder leaning over a table with the other agents, looking at photographs of a crime scene. And as Skinner stood there silently for a moment, Mulder had looked up, directly at him, and Skinner had thought, Please God, let him be working with me. When Mulder was introduced -- Patterson's golden boy, whom they'd all heard about -- Skinner could feel that odd, tingling, hollow sensation that started in his lower abdomen and spread up into his chest. He could not have expected Mulder to be even remotely attracted to him, yet he had been.

Yet he still was, Skinner realized as he pulled into the parking lot. For whatever reasons, reasons I can't even understand, he seems to think I offer him something. It had been a mystery to Skinner what Sharon had seen in him; it was even less comprehensible what Mulder could want.

The place was crowded as usual, and he got in line. He was scanning the list of items -- though he always got the same thing -- in idle boredom when he heard a voice beside him.

"Fancy meeting you here." Mulder smiled benignly at him.

His shoulders sagged. It was like being in the wrong gear in the car when you started up a hill; Skinner liked to shift into the proper speed to see Mulder. "I guess this isn't too far from your place, is it?"

"I don't do the artery-clogging thing that often, though." He cocked his head, a brightness in his eyes that hinted at something. "You going home?"

Skinner merely nodded. It was his turn to order and he stepped forward. As he took his numbered receipt, he turned around to look for Mulder, but he was gone. Skinner wasn't quite sure what to make of it -- had Mulder sensed some need for privacy? Or was he just yanking his chain?

After a few minutes they called his order. He took the bag and walked out, completely unsurprised to see Mulder leaning against the side of Skinner's car. Mulder shook his bag a little, held up his drink and pointed the straw at Skinner.

"Great minds think alike."

"And fools seldom differ."

"Crab."

Skinner raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Pest."

"This could go on all night. Is this like some equivalent of talking dirty? You get all hot and bothered by hurling junior high school names at each other?" He grinned. "Should we go get a room somewhere?"

The last thing Skinner wanted was to let Mulder know how much he amused him, so he dropped his head and fished his keys out of his pocket. Mulder moved away from the door and Skinner turned to him. "Coming with me?"

He thought that in the yellow of the sulfur light Mulder seemed to glimmer with the amber that reflected off his leather jacket and his hair. "I'll follow." He pointed a thumb back over his shoulder to indicate his own car.

So I've made a choice, Skinner realized. I've chosen not to be alone anymore. It had rushed at him, right there in a hamburger shop parking lot \-- the future, *his* future. Decided in an instant as if he'd had no part in it, without his even really understanding it.

He'd opened a door and Mulder had realized quickly that it *was* open, had known intuitively that Skinner was, if not exactly welcoming him, at least letting him into his life. It was so odd, he thought, how they were able to communicate at times without words or even gestures; yet at other times they couldn't communicate at all. He twisted the ring on his finger, aware of one more link to his past slipping away. He didn't even try to grasp at it as it melted slowly away.

Skinner didn't want to turn his back on the past. But there was a future right in front of him, too, one he'd had a chance at before and had tossed away. Another future; a future postponed. Skinner remembered that pivotal choice with shining clarity, all that he gave up -- the treasure of Mulder's eyes, the secret of his kiss. How many people got a second chance at that?

Wordlessly following Skinner inside, Mulder seemed absolutely at home, plopping down on the sofa next to him, doling out extra french fries, slurping his shake. Skinner ate without talking, letting Mulder carry on with the details of something especially gruesome he'd just finished, burying himself in the sweet tenor of Mulder's voice. He could never say it, but he loved how Mulder felt at ease about taking over as if this were his home; for the first time, perhaps, it felt like a home. When they were done Mulder settled back with the remote, aimlessly flipping channels. He heeled off his shoes and finally turned his attention to Skinner, almost as if he was surprised that Skinner was still there.

Mulder reached over and touched Skinner's wedding ring, turned it around and around on Skinner's finger. "I see you're wearing this again. You seem to take it on and off as it pleases you, with no discernible pattern."

Skinner pulled his hand away. "What do you want to do now?"

Mulder sat back down on the couch, pouting just a little. "Let's do something. Go somewhere."

"On a school night?" Skinner gathered up the plates and garbage and carried them out to the kitchen. When he came back, Mulder was smiling at him.

"Let's go to a movie."

"Let's not."

"Rather stay in? Maybe do the horizontal tango?"

"We could just talk."

Mulder snorted. "Oh yeah. I bet you'd like to do that."

"Okay, you got me there." He sat back down on the opposite end of the couch. He wished he *were* able to talk to Mulder; he wished he knew how people sat down and had conversations about emotions and wants and needs.

"Hey, Walter? The ring. Seriously. You put it on again after the hospital, didn't you? You wore it for a while after Sharon died, and now it's back on again after you died. Coincidence? I wonder." He shifted sideways and stared at Skinner.

"Whatever."

"It seems to come off at convenient times, too. Like in Chicago."

All he could do was nod. Finally he said, "True enough. I hid it from you."

"You did a darn good job, too."

"You'll never forgive me for that, will you?"

"At some point. Not just yet." He looked grimly at Skinner. "I thought about all the wasted time. So many years. Even when Sharon was gone, we still wasted time. And then I came in to the hospital, and they said you'd died. It really didn't matter that by the time I got to your room, you'd revived. All I could think was 'what a waste of time.' And about what you'd gone through, and how I couldn't help you, and all we'd lost."

"I know. They were difficult reconciliations. Dying was the easy part."

"What was the hard part?"

"The regrets. The things I didn't say and do. Knowing you can't rectify your mistakes... that you have no choice but to accept them and go as peacefully as you can."

"Scully told me what you said to her."

"Of course she did." Skinner slid down into the couch, putting his feet up on the coffee table and crossing his arms over his chest.

"And you knew she would tell me."

"You know, I think we have quite a future together. We could sit around for hours trying to psychoanalyze each other. We're pretty good at it these days."

"Walter. You didn't kill Sharon."

His first response normally would have been that he didn't believe he had, but Skinner realized that Mulder was telling a kind of truth. So he shrugged, stood up, and looked at Mulder. Vivid memories of that hotel room in Chicago -- of Mulder bent before him, neck arched back -- paralyzed him. Of lying to Sharon later, explaining why he'd been away for all that time, how hard the case had been. What it was like to taste every part of Mulder. Skinner held out his hand, palm up. "Stay tonight."

Mulder looked up at him, smiled softly, an arrogant tilt to his lips. He got up from the couch and walked upstairs, with Skinner following right behind.

Skinner wanted to empty his mind right now, fill it up again only with sensations and needs. Fill it up with Mulder's sensuality. He wanted Mulder to fuck him into oblivion, until he was raw and it seemed like it would never end.

Mulder wasn't even at the bedroom before he turned around and tore at Skinner's shirt, pulling at his belt and trousers. It felt to Skinner as if Mulder knew this was what he needed, something crazily passionate and out of control. Naked now, they pushed each other onto the bed, Mulder's hands seemingly everywhere at once.

Mulder was an extravagantly good kisser, his voluptuous lips so luxurious already that his seductive tongue was almost superfluous. Wet, beautiful, soul-searching kisses from a plush mouth that Skinner wanted to devour. Finally he took himself away from that and ran his tongue over one of Mulder's nipples, feeling it bud under his mouth. He sucked it, bit it hard, and instead of the kick in the ribs he'd expected, heard Mulder moan, "God, yeah," and felt him arch beneath him.

Now he wished he could be everywhere at once. Skinner couldn't keep up with all the things he wanted to do to Mulder, to have done to him: to have his mouth at Mulder's ass, his lips around Mulder's cock, his fingers dug into Mulder's flexing back, his tongue down Mulder's open throat. There wasn't enough time in the day for all he wanted, not enough time in a lifetime to make up for all they'd missed.

But as the fire built to white hot fury, all it took was four words from Mulder and the blaze went out in a puff of breath. Skinner could feel himself pulling away, knowing it was wrong but unable to stop himself. Mulder over his back, breath sliding along skin like a snake, in the same gasping breaths as his climax, saying: "God, I love you." Maybe Mulder hadn't even known he said it, but Skinner heard it and rejected it. He let Mulder relax over him, then shifted away.

The bed felt different suddenly; the room had gone cold. Maybe Mulder expected a confession from Skinner, maybe Mulder regretted the words. It didn't really matter. It changed things in a way Skinner was not willing to deal with. They stayed silently in bed for a while before he heard Mulder's soft, gentle voice against his shoulder.

"I have to be on a plane early tomorrow. I'll leave now so I don't have to wake you in the morning." He got up, put on his clothes -- the not-quite-tight black jeans Skinner liked him in best, the grey long-sleeved t-shirt.

Skinner sat up, but could think of nothing to say. He looked down at his hand, at the ring on his third finger, and moved his hand up to his forehead, scratching a little in idle concentration. Mulder stood in the doorway, a sad and exasperated look on his face. It was the same damn face he'd made when Skinner had been poisoned.

"It's not the end of the world, Walter. Someone's going to love you, sometime." Then he turned away.

It wasn't that Mulder loved him that bothered him, but Skinner couldn't quite say that out loud. He had no idea how to explain to Mulder how crushed he felt, as if he were lying at the bottom of the ocean, smashed by the pressure of the sea above him. Farther down, even, than the Marianas Trench, as if he were one of those ghostly white, unseeing creatures that existed in a space which shouldn't be able to sustain life. The only light that filtered to him was Mulder, but it was too much light. I've been down here so long I can't look at it; it hurts my eyes. Grief was the weight of a thousand fathoms of water above him; regret was the miles of darkness surrounding him.

A moment later Skinner heard the front door open, then close. He'd really meant it when he said earlier that he wished they could talk, but Mulder only believed he was being facetious. He'd never talked to Sharon. Hell, he'd never talked to anyone. He supposed that was something to swim up towards.

 

 

Days passed, and he still hadn't seen Mulder. Skinner wasn't sure whether he liked that or not. He'd grown used to the way Mulder stayed like a satellite, tracking his movement. Subtly relentless. But Skinner appreciated the space and the freedom Mulder had given him lately. Skinner didn't believe for one moment that Mulder was hiding from him; no, he'd be back when he thought Skinner had had enough time to absorb the changes in their relationship.

It had been a long time since he'd taken the bike out, and it seemed like a perfect day for it today. First, though, he thought he might say hello to Mulder, just an acknowledgment that Mulder was back in town, no pressure for anything else. Then he needed to stop by the motorcycle shop for new gloves before he took off.

Skinner had a feeling he knew where Mulder was today. If he remembered correctly, Mulder played basketball at the Y most Saturday mornings. When he'd listened to Mulder talk about it, he got the impression that none of the other players were FBI -- "who wants to play ball with Spooky?" \-- so he didn't feel too awkward about stopping by there.

Although running was clearly important to Mulder, he did it to keep himself in shape. Basketball was so obviously his passion; it was written in the childlike ecstasy of making a shot, or his furious darts as he moved down court.

Skinner watched him take the ball, all angles and lines, as he dribbled around first one, then another opponent. He moved to straighten, his eyes on the backboard. Skinner could almost feel the hum that circled through Mulder even at this distance.

Mulder coiled up on his toes, the line of energy moving up along his thighs, through the tightening torso, the swing of his lean, shimmering arms, and then that curling twist of the wrist as the ball was propelled away. It was followed by the faint hiss of the ball touching only net.

And then the step back, Mulder's eyes still concentrated on the shot, unaware of how boyishly satisfied he looked, of the way his trim body seemed to compact again from the energy he was taking back.

Skinner thought at that moment there might never be anything so satisfying as just watching Mulder when he was happy. That if Skinner could let himself, he could find in Mulder that contentment he sought, that freedom from guilt. But he had no idea how to stopper that feeling in a bottle, take it home and keep it safe from light or air.

As he walked away, he could feel Mulder's eyes settle on him. Skinner did not turn back, couldn't quite bring himself to do that. He'd only wanted to say hello, to let Mulder know he was welcome back. The message was received, loud and clear.

At the cycle shop he found the gloves he wanted right away. The woman working there today he'd seen before. She was an attractive brunette, about mid-thirties, and she seemed eager to help Skinner with his browsing. They chatted for a while about what type of motorcycle he had, which type of gloves were best, and other mundane things. On his way to the register, he stopped for a moment and looked at the helmets. On a whim, he picked one up, adding it to his tally. He'd never bothered to buy another helmet; Sharon had been afraid of motorcycles, and it wasn't too long after that the marriage had been on its way downhill, so he'd never needed a second one.

The woman was ringing up the gloves when he plunked the helmet on the counter. She gave him the total and then smiled at him.

"I wondered... I don't mean to be forward, but would you be interested in getting a cup of coffee some time?"

His first reaction was to say no, but then he thought better of it. "That would be nice. When?" He'd rarely received much attention from women even when he'd had hair, so the flattery of thinking he was coffee-worthy felt exciting and different.

She seemed genuinely surprised that he'd answered in the affirmative. "I don't usually ask people that!" she said apologetically. "I wasn't sure... you have a white mark around your finger, it looks like you used to wear a ring."

Looking down at his hand, he said, "No... I... I'm not married anymore."

"Ah. So you're freelance."

"Yes," he said, fighting the smile. "Freelance." He wondered fleetingly if Mulder would have been pissed at that statement. At the same time, he felt disloyal, dirty -- not because of Mulder, but because of Sharon. Did every widower feel that the first time they went out with someone? Probably not, he thought, because they usually didn't have themselves to blame for their wife's death.

"I'm Sandra," she said, holding out her hand.

Skinner shook it. "Walter." He stuffed the gloves and the receipt in his pocket.

"I actually have a break coming up. Are you in a hurry?" She waved at a co-worker to motion him to the register.

A smile came despite his best efforts; this all seemed surreal to him. He could count on one hand the number of times a woman had come on to him. At least this time didn't seem like it had the possibility of a murder arraignment as the finale. "No, I'm not in a hurry. Where would you like to go?"

"There's a Starbucks up two blocks by the Metro stop."

He motioned towards the door. "Lead the way." Then he picked up the helmet and tucked it under his arm. What on earth could he talk about? he wondered, following behind her. He simply never did things like this, especially not spontaneously.

Once they had their coffee and sat down, he felt completely at a loss. Maybe spontaneous was not his style, maybe he was just too much of a loner to ever really be able to strike up conversations with strangers of either sex.

Sandra seemed more at ease with this sort of thing, though, and started conversation by asking him about the bike, then segued into how she came to work at the shop. Her brother and his wife were the owners; Sandra ran the retail end of things while her brother managed the repairs. She herself didn't have much beyond a business interest in motorcycles, but she knew enough to keep up conversations with customers. When she finally asked him what he did, he didn't know how to answer at first; the question suddenly reminded him of how much he'd come to hate his career in the past few years.

And then it hit him why he was even here at all, how much a little flattery could affect him, how much he needed to feel like he still had some kind of masculine appeal. He'd felt so ineffectual, so weak since the hospital, as if he were a crumbling shell of a man -- an *old* man. Mulder had known him for so long, through so much, that his being attracted to Skinner wasn't enough to convince Skinner he had exceptional value in the romantic marketplace.

At the time of her death, when Skinner had returned to Sharon's hospital room, he'd stood there stupidly staring at the blood-soaked pillow, the messy bed linens and wires lying haphazardly on the bed. It had been Mulder coming up behind him, putting his hands on Skinner's shoulders, whispering, "I'll take care of everything, let me and Scully handle this," that shook him out of his daze. In some ways he'd never really recovered from that; even as he'd rejected Mulder and Scully when he'd returned to work, he'd still felt as though he could do nothing without Mulder. It had taken him all this time to see that it was not solely about attraction, but about some deeper kind of caring, about trust. And here he was, willing to throw all that out because someone came on to him.

Skinner was too polite to ditch Sandra, though, so he stayed and talked, listened, until her break was over. He was carefully non-committal about seeing her again, which he could tell she picked up on, but at this point, all he could think about was hitting the road.

 

 

The first thing Mulder would see when he came in, Skinner knew, was the leather jacket thrown on the chair. Then he'd spy the helmet and the gloves at the base of the stairs where Skinner had thrown them. Then he'd head up the stairs, where he'd see the torn jeans and the sweater with the blood on the cuff. He knew he should have put them away so Mulder wouldn't find them, but at the time, all he could think of was getting into that bath.

After the view, the spa tub had been the selling point for him on this condo. With all the sports injuries he'd acquired over the years, he'd learned a thing or two about the joys of a whirlpool bath big enough for a man his size.

Right now, Mulder would be getting that look, the look that had crept so slowly across his face months ago when he'd begun to realize that Skinner was seriously ill and not just sleeping one off. The look that Mulder had worn when he came into the hospital room after Skinner had flatlined and recovered; the look that said, "I'm lost." Skinner did not like bearing the responsibility for that look. It made him impatient, angry.

Footsteps up the stairs, then the door opening slowly. Mulder peering around the frame, as if afraid of what he might find. Then the sigh, shaking Mulder's body like wind through a tree's canopy. Mulder stepping in, closing the door.

"Don't hover," Skinner said, his eyes closed, sliding down farther into the hot water, until his chin was submerged. "I hate it when you lurk in the shadows."

"I don't lurk in the shadows," Mulder answered flatly, but Skinner could hear the tension in his voice, knew him so well that every strain and crack rang like a musical chord.

"I'm not dead. I'm all right."

"I can see that. No, you're not all right." His voice was becoming peevish, rising higher. "What happened?"

"I took a spill on the bike. No exploding veins, no nanites."

"What happened?" Mulder still stood by the door, Skinner noted, as he finally opened his eyes. Christ, it looked like he was going to cry. Skinner silently pleaded that he wouldn't.

"I swerved to avoid a cat. I dumped the bike and slid, and the pipe caught me on the leg. "

Mulder stepped forward now and stood by the tub's edge, looking down at Skinner. "That's my fella. Defender of justice, savior of small animals."

Skinner sank even farther into the tub for a moment, covering his head with the water. As much as he'd known this would happen, he still didn't quite know what to do about it. It was flattering to know that Mulder cared so much, but ever since the poisoning Mulder had been flittering around him, waiting for him to break. He slid back up, rubbing the water from his face. "You *do* lurk in the shadows. You're always there, you've been doing it since you came to work for me. I never knew what you wanted."

Mulder sat down on the edge of the tub, put his hands in his lap, like a boy in church. "Of course you knew. I tried to talk to you about it, but you'd have none of that. I didn't know you had a motorcycle."

Skinner could hear the implied complaint. All the things Mulder didn't know about him.

"I haven't taken it out in a really long time. I've hardly even ridden this one. Sharon never trusted them, so I didn't even get the sport bike until we separated. I only go places by myself, usually." He wondered if Mulder would say, take me with you some time. But Mulder said nothing.

"I just felt like going for a ride." He was helpless; he couldn't explain it to Mulder even if he had the words. Mulder would just say something demeaning, call it a midlife crisis or something.

"You came by the Y today."

"I thought... I don't know what I thought. I hadn't seen you in a while."

"Giving you space." Mulder shrugged, then dipped a hand in the water and ran his wet hand over Skinner's head. It was an odd gesture, Skinner thought, almost sensual, almost like a baptism. "Do you miss me when I'm not around?"

Skinner looked away. "Fox..."

"I lurk in the shadows because that's the only place you'll let me stand." Again he dipped his hand in the water, let it run through his fingers.

"It's just been too complicated. I regret some of the things I did, you know that. I didn't intentionally try to hurt you."

Mulder smiled, a rueful, sad smile that made Skinner's heart twist painfully. "Aren't you the fortunate one." He leaned over, massaged Skinner's shoulders for a few moments, then ran a hand over the huge, red scrape on Skinner's arm.

"What do you mean?" Skinner finally asked.

"When you talk about me, you don't look like this."

This time Skinner looked at Mulder's anguished face, really looked. *Ah God*. He felt his eyes grow hot, stinging. For Christ's sake, he was going to cry, for the first time he could even remember. It didn't help that his head was pounding from smacking the pavement so hard, but he couldn't believe Mulder was making him feel like this. Strike that -- he was making himself feel like this about Mulder.

"Fox, I can't be the person you need right now." He ran his thumb over Mulder's lip, caressed his cheek. "I don't know how."

Mulder appeared to ignore him, still running his fingers lightly along Skinner's body, into the water, then out of it. "I always wondered what it must have been like for you to have to take me on, knowing all that had happened between us. I remember that first time I was in your office and you were so hideously condescending. What did old Spender père know, I always wondered. Do you think C.G.B. had a line on us, and was using it to reel us in?"

"I don't know," Skinner answered. Mulder had not really talked much about that since he got the X-Files back, but his bitterness and sarcasm were amped up when he did. Mostly, they studiously avoided the subject. "I never really cared."

Then Mulder fixed him with a hard gaze, his fingers gripping Skinner's wrist tightly. "What did you care about?"

"Preserving my marriage. Trying not to make a total fuck-up out of everything. Keeping you alive. Scully's life. You."

"Always?"

Skinner nodded. "No matter what you said to me or did to me." He believed Mulder had always thought it was about the sex. "The first moment I looked at you, I knew something different about the world. I desired you, yes. But it was something in your eyes, the way you looked up at me, as if you knew me already. And that was the way I felt, too." So there it was. For once, he'd said it. How he felt. "But you think the world is black and white. I have too much grey in my life, Fox."

"I'd heard about you since I got to the Chicago office, everyone acted like you were this ass-kicking dictator, called you Bulldog. I could feel you there before I knew. I just looked up and I thought, 'aha.' You had this funny light in your eyes, your mouth was twisted in something like a smirk, but not quite. And when you said something, I thought your voice was like honey. That's one of the things I like about you, you know." Mulder took the soap and ran suds lightly over the scrapes on Skinner's body. Skinner tried not to flinch from the sting. "I like how you talk through clenched teeth at the office, but you loosen up at home. I like how you say my first name and I don't want to hit you. I like best of all that you let your actions speak for you. I always wanted to be one of those people who only talks when they need to, but I never quite manage it. When you speak, people pay attention. We know it means something."

"You have rarely paid attention to me," Skinner said with mild amusement, twitching his head.

"Oh no, that's where you're wrong. I may have gone on my own path, but I've taken note of everything in the past six years." He paused. "Did you go out today intending to go somewhere far away?"

"I like to drive." He looked away. "Fox, I had coffee today with this woman I met. I don't know why I did it. Flattery, I guess. She asked me out, and I went."

Mulder seemed unimpressed. Skinner didn't know what he'd expected -- for Mulder to act like a jealous lover, or to get pouty and leave? In either case, he was disappointed. Mulder took Skinner's left hand out of the water, looked at his ring finger.

"Once more, with feeling. You didn't kill Sharon."

"And you're not responsible for Samantha's disappearance," Skinner said in retort. "And you didn't kill me."

Mulder stood up, started pulling the black sweater up over his head. "Tell you what, motorcycle man," he said, his voice muffled by the clothing. He finished taking the sweater off, then pulled off his jeans. "I'm going to tell you what it was like to lose Samantha and Scully. Then you'll tell me all about Sharon, how much you loved her and why you miss her. When that's done, I will tell you what it was like to see you die. And then, goddammit to hell, we will let our ghosts rest in peace."

He stepped into the tub, nearly stepping on Skinner. Annoyed, Skinner shifted and tried to shove Mulder away, but Mulder only pushed himself down between Skinner's legs, leaning back against his body. He pushed all his weight back as Skinner tried to shift away. As cramped as it was, Mulder was not going to let him leave without a fight.

Maybe, Skinner realized, that was their whole affair in a nutshell.

 

 

It was Friday, and Skinner thought that would be reason enough to take off work early and go pick up the bike. He no longer had the drive to live at the office; after watching his marriage deteriorate and his life nearly end because of work, he'd found it hard to care whether the FBI got more than 40 hours a week out of him.

Since the repair shop was so near Mulder's apartment, he thought he might stop by Mulder's office before he left, ask if he would be in the mood for company -- if Mulder was even here, since Skinner couldn't keep track of Mulder's bizarre travel schedule. He carefully peered in around the door to find him there alone; thankfully, that meant he didn't have to come up with some lame line like, "Agent Mulder, can I see you when you have a chance?" that Scully would see through in an instant. Mulder was looking at slides over a new light box he'd ordered in his ongoing attempt to refurnish his office. Skinner had certainly seen enough bills coming through for that. When Mulder looked up at him, it was as if no time had elapsed since Chicago. How long before I stop living in the past, he wondered, and start worrying about what's right in front of me?

"Sir?" Mulder asked, keeping the office line neatly drawn. That was one thing Skinner thought Mulder did remarkably well. Among many things. At some point, he would have to tell Mulder just how many things.

Skinner looked around nervously, as if he would find Scully hiding somewhere, then looked back at Mulder. "I was going to pick up the bike this evening. It's near your place, and I thought I'd stop by if that's all right." Usually they ended up at Skinner's place; for different reasons they were each happier there, but Skinner also found Mulder's place something of a domestic challenge and that amused him enough to keep going there. "I also thought... I thought about a long drive tomorrow, barring unforeseen circumstances. I wondered if you'd like to come along."

The look on Mulder's face was something he wasn't quite prepared for; he looked almost frightened.

"This doesn't mean we're engaged or anything," Skinner said dryly. "A yes or no will do."

Mulder nodded his head and swallowed. "Yeah. I'm free tonight and tomorrow. That would be nice." His voice seemed distant.

Despite Mulder's best hopes so many days ago, Skinner could no more say that his feelings or life had changed, or that he'd put any ghosts to rest, than before. It wasn't as easy as Mulder wanted to believe, but Skinner felt like the Grinch trying to tell him that. Mulder was consumed with trying to make it all right. He didn't know what drove Mulder to try to soothe him -- it could be anything from a simple need for love to an attempt to cure him of his grief. It both chafed at and beguiled him, like so many other things. And now here Mulder was, acting as if Skinner had asked him to the prom.

"I'll see you tonight, then."

It was probably a mistake to show up at Mulder's with the bike -- he imagined he was in for some serious mocking. First there was his beloved Hein-Gericke leather jacket, which had miraculously survived the spill, albeit not in pristine condition. He felt foolish caring that much about an item of clothing, but he couldn't help it. Its simplicity -- none of the big zippers and metal and bulk of most jackets -- was elegant, he liked the sleek racing style, and the sleeves were actually long enough. He carried his helmet in, which he also imagined would provide Mulder with hours of enjoyment, and then there was the bike itself, a young man's machine, which would require commentary. At least that was parked outside. He braced himself and buzzed at the intercom to enter.

Mulder had left the apartment door open for him, and Skinner stood there for a moment in the doorway, waiting for Mulder to make cracks. But all he got was Mulder standing by his desk, staring, fish-eyed.

Skinner closed the door, grumbling, "What?" as Mulder came towards him.

"Oh, I like that look. I like that a lot. Could we... would you leave that on? I could just unzip the jeans and you keep that jacket on and let me suck your cock right here in the foyer." His grin was wicked, as wicked as his words.

As much as Skinner didn't want to admit that words had such an effect on him, he was instantly aroused. Mulder pressed against him and rubbed his groin against Skinner's cock, which despite his best efforts to the contrary was nearly stiff inside his jeans. Skinner could smell something cooking in the kitchen and he thought about mentioning it, but then Mulder thrust his tongue inside his mouth, and words and food suddenly seemed immaterial. Mulder's hand found its way inside his jeans, its smooth coolness covering his throbbing cock, and next thing he knew, Mulder's tongue had left his mouth and was now making its way around the base of his cock, his jeans down on his thighs and Mulder's greedy fingers digging into various parts of his body. It was always that way with Mulder and sex; each moment was indelibly printed on Skinner's consciousness, but he also missed large chunks of time, like frames cut out of a film.

Lying on the bed later, sprawled weakly across it, Skinner said, "You're a good cook, in spite of your tendency to get distracted." The jacket was now at the foot of the bed, along with Mulder. Who knew he had a leather fetish? Skinner had thought hilariously in the midst of being worshipped. The bed was also now littered with plates and empty beer bottles. Skinner still wore his jeans, but Mulder was completely naked, and seemed utterly at home with that.

"What did you expect, showing up here like that? Believe me, I know why that woman dragged you out for coffee. It's insanely sexy, you knew that, you silly bastard."

"I was actually expecting mockery. About my mid-life crisis and all."

"If this is a mid-life crisis, I hope there's more in store. Planning on buying any latex?"

In spite of himself, Skinner laughed out loud.

"Oh, that is a sound I have not heard in years. It's music." Mulder stared hard at him, his face not showing any trace of happiness despite his words.

"Not many people make me laugh. You do."

"I wish I had some reassurance that any laughter achieved was the result of something intentional on my part, but for most of the past few years, I'm sure it was all completely unintentional. I used to wonder, when I'd leave meetings, if you would all be slapping your knees over me."

"Never. I wouldn't allow it." This seemed to please Mulder. "Fox... why me?" He had no idea why he was asking after all this time, but he could barely understand why Mulder tolerated his character flaws, let alone wanted to have sex with him.

"Why anyone, Walter? Why do I love Scully? Why do you care for me? Who knows? I only know it *is* you, it's everything about you." His face seemed clouded by darkness, and Skinner wondered why every conversation they had lately ended up with Mulder looking at him that way. "You knew it was going to be different, didn't you? In the hospital? You knew we were going to change."

Skinner nodded, running his fingers idly over his stomach. "Yeah."

"You thought about me."

"How could I not? You were there almost every damn day, moon-faced and mopey. No, you were there *every* day."

"It was more than that."

"You were the last thing I'd think about. The first thing I craved when I was steady again."

"Craved," Mulder repeated, crawling across the bed towards him on all fours. "Oh, I like that word. In fact, I love that word coming out of your mouth, about me. I never knew a word like that could make me so aroused."

Skinner put his hand behind Mulder's head, pulling him down to his mouth. His tongue slipped in, met Mulder's, twisting and turning. Mulder pulled away, slowly leaning back on his heels. "Then why did you lie to us about Krycek? Why not let us -- me -- get him? Take that little toy away from him and we can put that behind us."

"Don't be so obtuse. You know who he works for, with. Do you think those people are all gone now? Spender, or whatever he's calling himself these days, is still around. Do you think it's as simple as killing Krycek, and then it's over? Do you think they don't know what he has, and what he's doing with it?"

"It's worth the risk. I have to absolve myself, maybe, or find some atonement in it, because it would never have happened if not for me."

"That's just stupid and beneath you." At some point, they still had to talk about all this, about the consortium and the smoker and Jeffrey Spender's death, how it fit in with Samantha and Mulder's father and the rest of the baggage they carried. He knew Mulder was avoiding it, concentrating on getting his department back, concentrating on changing things with Skinner, but sooner or later, they were going to have to talk about it, and changing the subject wouldn't work anymore. "I don't know what Krycek's got up his sleeve. I don't anticipate that it's anything positive. But we can't do anything about it now."

"That's just bullshit. Why lie for him and protect him? We could get rid of him and his little whiz-bang toy."

"You just really aren't getting this, are you? Mulder, I didn't lie to protect him. I'm trying to protect you and Scully. I can't have you going after him. The consequences are too enormous."

"The other consequences are that he could take you away from me. I can't lose you again."

Softly, gently, he touched Mulder's face, ran his fingers down chin, neck, collarbone, to rest on Mulder's shoulder. "You didn't have me before, not really. But whatever we have now, don't forget that if you do something to one of their own, they may not let you live this time. They tolerate you. There have been dozens of times they could have killed you and Scully. I have no bargaining power any more, and I'm not letting you put yourself in a position to be killed. And maybe I don't want to lose this, did that ever occur to you? You never realize that I'm afraid, too."

Mulder draped his body over Skinner's, his hands circling Skinner's head. "I can see all the life lessons I've tried to teach you about holding on to guilt didn't mean a damn thing. Sooner or later, Walter. I told you, I'm pushy but I'm patient." He ran his tongue along Skinner's lips, then darted it inside, sucked, bit, licked. "I have a craving, did I tell you?"

 

 

"What on earth takes you so long?" Skinner grumbled, although it lost some of its effect being muffled by the helmet.

"*I* have hair to dry," Mulder reminded him. He tossed the helmet Skinner had handed him up in the air, rolled it around. "Well, you might not think this means we're engaged, but in certain cultures, a guy gives another guy his helmet to wear, and it's the equivalent of a promise ring."

Skinner started the motorcycle and pushed up the kickstand, then he pointed to the seat behind him. Mulder just stood there, watching him.

"This is all very sexy," Mulder said. "I had no idea when you said sport bike that this was what you were talking about. I've only heard them referred to as crotch rockets. And I like the way your ass is perched out there like that. Verrrry nice, plus that helmet and the jacket, all this sexy, shiny black stuff... ride me, daddy!"

Skinner sighed deeply. "Are you going to stand there making wiseass comments, or are you coming with me?" He punctuated this by poking a finger at the seat behind him.

Mulder threw his leg over the seat and climbed on. Skinner pulled out a pair of gloves and handed them to him, saying over his shoulder, "You'll need these." Mulder put them on, then tried to slide his hands into the front pockets of Skinner's jeans. He was met with a sharp elbow to the ribs, and withdrew his hands immediately, placing them lightly on Skinner's hips. The little "oof" sound that accompanied the elbow only made Skinner smile.

They took off, heading south. "Do you know what to do on one of these?" Skinner said over his shoulder, when they were at a red light.

"Sort of. I've ridden one only once before. I rode with this guy I knew in England. He was insane, he took those roundabouts at like ninety miles an hour; we were parallel to the roadway. Scared the hell out of me."

Skinner punched it at the light and laughed. "You'll be all right."

It was nice to be on the road this time; nothing but pavement and the day ahead of him. After a time he simply became absorbed in the driving, and it wasn't until he felt his stomach growling that he realized it was long past time for lunch. They stopped at the first diner they found.

Mulder was fairly quiet for once, picking up old threads of conversation, discussing cases long since dead, but only lightly, letting the silence fill up the rest of the time. Skinner was surprised how comfortable he felt just sitting here with Mulder this way. There was no awkwardness. Occasionally he would notice Mulder looking at him intently, but it was only when Mulder tapped Skinner's plate with his fork and said, "Clean plate club," that he felt Mulder hovering again. The rest of the time Mulder seemed equally content.

Skinner imagined that this was what Mulder had wanted all along, anyway. To simply be together, acting something like a couple.

A couple. With Mulder. There was a thought utterly alien to Skinner.

After a while of just driving, during which the only time Skinner stopped was for gas, he'd begun to even forget that Mulder was with him. It wasn't until he found just the scenery he'd been looking for -- without even knowing this had been his destination -- that he stopped the bike and became aware that Mulder was behind him, nearly draped over his back.

He pulled off the road, over small hillocks of green grass, towards the water, then killed the engine. Getting off the bike, he stretched generously and turned to look at Mulder, who still sat there, watching him. Finally Mulder took off his helmet. "You *are* the fortunate one. You don't get helmet hair." He ruffled his hair, shaking his head like a dog would. Finally he stepped off the bike. "I figured we were going to the shore, I just didn't think it was in south Virginia."

"Didn't really have a plan," Skinner said. "I figured I'd go where I went. Does it bother you?"

"No, not at all. But I'm thinking we might not get back tonight."

Mulder was rubbing at his tailbone and trying to work the kinks out of his legs.

"Are you okay?" Skinner asked.

"Those things do a number on your ass, but I can see the appeal of all that throbbing machinery between your legs. My butt's screaming, next time get a Lexus!"

"I'm sorry. It was too long a trip."

"No, really. It's perfect." He smiled at Skinner, a weird, cock-eyed grin. "Perfect," he said, nearly whispering.

Skinner walked away from him, feeling the life returning to his body. The bike put him in a position where he could feel the engine reverberating against his chest, and it put a fair amount of strain on his shoulders and back. But he liked it, liked the intensity of it. He jumped down over a low hump of grass onto the sand, past the scrub trees that lined the grass just before it turned to beach.

The smell of the water swathed him, and he breathed it in as deeply as he could. Walking for a little bit, lost in the feel of the place and unaware of Mulder's presence, he knelt down and picked up some sand, warmed by the sun all day, and let it slide through his fingers. When he looked up, he saw Mulder staring at him, biting his lower lip.

"What?" Skinner asked, straightening, alarmed by the anxious look on Mulder's face.

"Jesus Christ," Mulder said, his voice quavering. "I didn't get it before, I just didn't see it."

"Fox, what are you talking about?" Skinner asked, annoyed. He walked back up to where Mulder was standing. There was no one else within sight of them; the beach was absolutely empty of life except for the birds.

"I couldn't figure it out. But back at the restaurant, and all this guilt... You savor everything. You inhale your coffee before you drink it. You taste everything slowly before you dig in. It's like you're noticing every texture, feeling every atom of things. Like it's all some great big wonder to you." He stepped forward, took a handful of the jacket and yanked on Skinner's arm. "You wanted to die. You didn't just reconcile yourself to it. You welcomed it. All this guilt over Sharon, over me and Scully. You wished that Krycek hadn't flipped the switch back to 'live'. But here you are."

Skinner couldn't answer; he tried, but nothing came out.

"Everything is new to you, isn't it? Even the way you watch me when we make love, the way you touch me. You can't get over the fact that you're still alive."

All Skinner could do was turn away, walk down the beach a few steps, then sit down, his back against the grassy slope.

Mulder came and sat beside him.

"What difference does it make?" Skinner asked.

"It makes a hell of a difference. All this time I've thought we couldn't quite get it together because of your guilt over Sharon. But that's only partially the obstacle. You're somewhere in between, aren't you? Surprised and curious, still thinking you deserved to die, but instead you're alive."

"Maybe not for long," Skinner noted wryly.

"That's not funny."

"No, I guess it isn't."

They sat for a while, the sun warming them. Finally Mulder said, "You wanted to die because you let her down. Because you let us down. You think you deserved what you got."

"My regrets for Sharon are different from the ones I have for you two." He picked up a twig, began snapping it into small sections methodically. "At the heart of it is that I was disloyal. I betrayed her confidence in me, and I was unworthy of her."

"With me. You betrayed her with me."

"If it had been a simple one-nighter, that might have made a difference. But every day I worked with you, every day I watched you hate me because of who I was, drove me further and further inside myself. She couldn't compete with that. And in the end, it was my belief in you, in your cause, that killed her."

"I never hated you. I was bitter, but I never hated you."

"Well, I had enough self-hatred for both of us. And I was never willing to take a side for you. Played it straight down the middle, and maybe some of the things that happened could have been prevented if I'd done something."

Mulder was digging for pebbles in the sand, amassing a small pile of them between his feet. "You said as much to Scully and she told you the same thing: bullshit."

"Anyway, what does it matter, really? I'm here. I do appreciate things differently. It *is* this big wide world of wonder, even if I feel like I'm being crushed by it. I don't know if I care what Krycek has up his sleeve. He can't make me do anything I don't want to, the threat just isn't there any more. Unless he does the same thing to you. That changes the stakes."

Mulder rubbed his face. "I feel so weirdly sleepy. It must be the sun." It was unseasonably warm, and they were being pleasantly baked by the rays.

"It's the riding. Being a passenger makes you sleepy. It's different when you're driving." He felt very awake, very alive right now.

"You said dying was the easy part."

"It was. You just... let go."

"But then you'd miss this." He swept his hand towards the bay. "You'd miss the beauty of simple things like how the light looks on water. The sun on your face in winter."

"The sound of your voice." Skinner stared straight ahead, but he could feel Mulder looking at him.

"If that's what it takes to keep you going." Mulder tossed a pebble towards the water. "We spend all our lives tearing our hearts apart. We're broken and battered by all the deeds and misdeeds, the wrongs we can't undo. I don't expect that you'll ever stop feeling responsible for her death, any more than I can ever stop feeling as though I should have saved Samantha, could have changed things. Do you really think, if either of them were here, they would stand here and say, 'this is all your fault, you didn't protect me?' You know they wouldn't." He picked up another pebble, threw it out.

Skinner sat watching him out of the corner of his eye, his arms resting on his knees.

"I mean," Mulder continued, "we're just the kind of men who feel guilty, aren't we? It's part of us, that we have a responsibility to others. When we let others down, we're brutal on ourselves. But do you think Spender senior thought for one moment, as he pulled the trigger and shot his own son--"

"You don't know that for certain."

"Yes, I do. Do you think he even thought twice? Even his own son is meaningless to him. But you and me, we're the ones who care, who go so far as to carry a death wish solely because of our failures."

Skinner turned to him, breathing deeply, tasting the briny air. "That may be true. But it doesn't change anything."

"No, it doesn't. But you can choose to live with it, instead of letting it weigh so heavily on you that you want to die."

God, he hated it when Mulder was right.

"We can't necessarily undo the damage. But we have this choice to mend some of it." Mulder rubbed a hand over his face, and he looked very tired.

There was nothing left to say, so Mulder said something anyhow. "I am so in love with you."

"I know. And I appreciate that." Mulder raised an eyebrow at him. Skinner grabbed Mulder's arm. "Wait. I didn't mean it like that. I didn't mean it like 'thank you.' I meant I understand the significance of what you're saying." Skinner knew, with a shimmering certainty, that Mulder understood how he felt about him.

He looked down at Mulder. "Why not go to sleep? It's okay with me."

Mulder put his head against Skinner's shoulder. "That's nice. The leather is all toasty."

Skinner stared out at the water, watching the birds sail on the updraft. The undulating silver thread of a boat's wake cut through the waves, glistening against the fading light. Maybe Mulder was right, maybe there were things he'd miss.

If life was the bright light of day, and death the darkness of night, then what else was grief but a kind of twilight? A time between light and dark, a place you weren't fully alive but felt so dead to the world around you.

The twilight would last only so long, and he'd been living here for quite some time. At some point, life would push in one direction, whether it was night or day. Skinner waited, feeling the rise and fall of Mulder's head on his shoulder as he dozed, taking in the warmth of Mulder's body next to him. He leaned his cheek against Mulder's head and breathed in the scent of his hair, slowly rubbing his jaw back and forth. At times like this, when he let himself go, he wasn't the prisoner of his emotions any more. Only Mulder could let him out of that cage.

It made Skinner feel somehow strong and capable again, that Mulder was comfortable enough to fall asleep with him. Safe enough. Eventually Mulder woke with a start, his head snapping up before he realized where he was.

He rubbed his eyes, looking at Skinner. The sun was setting behind them now, the sky casting its shadows around them.

"Hungry?"

"Starving," Skinner answered, getting up. "I know a great place near here, good crab cakes."

"Sounds good to me. Hell, anything sounds good to me right now."

"I was thinking while you were asleep. We could just stop at a motel, go back tomorrow morning. Since you're sleepy and all."

"Me with no toothbrush."

"Well, me neither, but that's easily remedied," Skinner said, sliding his helmet on. Mulder did the same and got on the back.

They had dinner at a quiet place, casual enough that no one seemed to think much of two men traveling around together on one motorcycle. Afterwards Skinner drove for a while through the night before finding a motel. When he came out of the lobby, he dangled two keys.

"Separate rooms." There was, he hoped, a warning in his voice.

"Walter, don't you pay any attention to the tourist literature? Virginia is for lovers." In spite of his joking, there was exasperation in his voice. "I seriously hope this is just for show."

Skinner merely arched an eyebrow at him.

He drove the bike ahead and parked it in front of the rooms. He pointed at the door next to his, and Mulder nodded his head. How a person could nod sarcastically was beyond Skinner's comprehension, but Mulder managed to do it.

Instead of going into the room, Mulder stood at the doorway, hand on the doorknob. The shadows cast across his face seemed to divide it, one half hidden, the other too harshly lit. "Walter. I can't rid you of feeling like you got what you deserved. All I can offer you is the same thing I've offered before. I know we're in this terribly conservative organization. I know I'm your subordinate. There are enormous risks for both of us. Only you can decide if the risks are worth it to you."

Mulder fidgeted with the key in the handle, looked away and then directly at him again. "I believe that life teaches us really hard lessons, like how to say good-bye. I'm still trying to learn how to do that. I thought, when you flatlined, that I still hadn't learned."

Skinner wasn't sure if he was supposed to say something in return. Finally he said, "I'm glad that you keep trying to get me to move on. It's good for me. But it's very hard for me to let go of my past, and what I did."

Mulder shrugged. "The past is another country, Walter. We can pick up and move on to someplace new, get out the old passport and go. You have a traveling companion when you want one."

Just when you thought Mulder was the most fucked-up, self-absorbed guy you could meet, he'd offer sage wisdom and deep insight like that, and throw everything off kilter. Skinner merely nodded at him, unable to think of anything that could measure up to such a statement, and went inside his own room.

As he stripped off his jacket, he heard the door shut in the next room. Of course Mulder knew that they would not spend the night in separate rooms. But just now, Skinner didn't want to do anything predictable; he felt like Mulder knew him inside out, and it was a little too scary. So much had been said today, both through words and without words, so much had changed. First he'd take a shower and revive himself. Then he'd figure out what else to do.

Mulder was right; it was time to finally choose a direction. He'd taken steps that way already. But sooner or later, you had to get really serious, decide whether you let grief run your life or traveled on. Twilight always gave way to another time, another color, whether that was nighttime or dawn. If he looked hard enough, could he see light creeping around its edges?


End file.
